The wind howled across the peaks of Elarian Ridge as Aran Thorne stood at the cliff's edge, his sword buried in the frozen earth. Below him, the Valley of Whispers stretched wide, a place where legends were born—and where they came to die.
His cloak billowed like a banner of war, catching the last golden rays of the twin suns. His amber eyes glowed faintly, a mark of the ancient bloodline he carried—a line bound to fate and fire.
Aran's gloved hand clenched around the hilt of his blade. Not long ago, he had made a vow on this very ground—to return with the heart of the Shadowbeast, to prove his love for the healer maiden, Elira. But the creature had vanished, and with it, so had she. Now, three years later, he had returned, older, broken, but not beaten.
"I will find you," he whispered into the wind. "And I will keep the promise in my eyes."
Behind him, hooves crunched the frost. A rider approached—armor dark, face shadowed. Aran turned, expecting a challenge, but instead, the rider threw down a sigil—a phoenix wreathed in violet flame.
"She lives," the rider said simply. "But not for long."
And just like that, Aran's heart ignited again. Not with fear—but with fire.